Kovacs
by DrinkofWater
Summary: When Rorschach sits down for a round of psychoanalysis, the line between doctor and patient is blurred. Short story.
1. Flowers and Butterflies

_This is the first, and most recent, piece of fanfiction I've ever written. It's also my first story on the site. A bit of a serious one. I began working on it a long time ago, so it's strange to think that I'm here years later, polishing and trimming it for upload. _

_Basic concept: The beginning of Watchmen Chapter 6, alternating between the perspectives of Rorschach and psychologist Dr. Malcolm Long_

_Let me know what you think!_

* * *

><p>Never before had I seen a man of such striking, intimidating, yet altogether bizarre appearance.<p>

His bushy red eyebrows were an unkempt mess, with a shock of fiery short hair just above them, more choppy and dirty than any mane in the prison. The man's skeleton-hollow cheekbones and toned muscles formed an unsettling contrast. At the center of his features was a haggard mouth, with pale, thin lips, almost mocking in their apathy. Whether he was unusually ugly or just uncommonly strange I could never decide. Freckles draped his taunt skin like a flock of scattered sheep drowning in a lake of purple bruise. But more memorable than his entire look and demeanor combined were those eyes, piercing brown orbs haunted with the mere suggestion of the horrors they'd seen.

This was Walter J. Kovacs.

Distracted taking him in, I fumbled with my suitcase, fishing for inkblot prints to test a seemingly untestable man. Did he see me flinch? For all the world I hoped not. My eyes darted to the statue seated across from me. Those eyes! They bored into me as if he were the examiner, I the test subject. The thought was stomach-churning, and I swore to myself not to dwell on it.

"Will you look at it Walter?" I prompted politely as I could manage. "Will you do that for me?" Watching him pull the inkblot uncomfortably and unnecessarily close to his face, eyes bulging intensely, my thoughts did a double take. Was this case solvable? No…of course it was. Surely more practical than tackling that first crop of crime-fighters back who-knows-when! I pitied the psychologist who attempted to fix them. Besides Veidt, these "vigilantes" were all loose a few screws, just as backward as their underwear. But they sold papers, truckloads. I quietly hoped that a victory here would seal my career. The struggle was worth it, even that stare…

But there wasn't time to contemplate. A monotone, emotionless drone woke me from my reflections.

"A pretty butterfly."

It was an appalling voice to be stirred with, enduring like a bad taste, refusing to fade. His tone almost demanded a response to compensate for what it lacked. I twirled my pen in my hands. My palms were sweating.

"Let's try another one, shall we?" I directed, too cheerfully for my mood. Nerves were getting to me again as I passed the next inkblot to his course hands. Tonight I'd stop by the pharmacy on the way home. I needed the pills. It must have been my heart, the stress of the job maybe. Kovac's expression was completely unchanged, his eyes stoic and cold when he replied.

"Some nice flowers."

The response, it was clean again, mentally sound, even healthy. It was everything I could have hoped for. If flowers and butterflies were on his mind, how could my endeavor here be any less soothing! Perhaps I wasn't so far from my goal after all. My encouragements to him were of only the confident variety, in the tone of a man enthralled with his proximity to success. Yes, I was enthralled, if dangerously so.

"I really think there's hope, Walter. Don't you?"

But he only stared again, his features morose molded marble. Was there a crack in the stone? As I left the room, taking one last glance at my guinea pig, I could have sworn hints of sarcasm now lingered in his eyes, traces of mockery in his mouth. Or maybe it was just the light.


	2. Company

_In case you're wondering, each part will only be a scene long. Sharp and brief. Kind of like Rorschach's speech, when you think about it._

* * *

><p>A chorus erupted that afternoon. No guard attempted to strangle the sound, no "keeper-of-the-peace" lessened the chaos. There was no peace here. Symphonies of slurs, thrashing tunes of rattling bars, and tempos of kicking, clanging, and cursing echoed endlessly off the concrete prison walls. The sickening sheet music, iron bars sprinkled with calloused hand notes, found a new inmate at its centerfold. Flanked by sentinels and striding unflinchingly toward his cell, Kovacs was now in the confinement to which he had sentenced hundreds of others. The hundreds, a seemingly endless mass, began their barrage of insults and spit, roughly shaven faces contorting in mockery. Their sweaty palms strangled the bars, minds foaming with the fantasy of Kovac's neck in their place. A man to the right, rat-like and sickly, screamed his abuse in voice a high and shrill. His chest heaved increasingly with every shout as if his small frame couldn't contain nor control its own rage.<p>

_Shuddering, shaking mouse. Condition near beyond salvaging. Dire status. But no one examines him. No one drowning him with mind games to see how he ticks. Just a statistic. To them._

The guards were slowing now, stopping. The shorter of the two remained by Kovac's side, carefully prepared to watch his every move. That is, if he had actually moved. A proud expression occasionally interrupted the guard's vigilance, pride that occasionally slipped back to prudence and back again.

_Playing superman in mind. Too obvious. Too pathetic. Hopes degradingly for fifteen-minute fame._

The other, a jaded man who produced a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked Kovac's cave of iron and concrete, seemed no more stimulated than a man returning a lost pet to its cage.

_Must be routine procedure. Man will regret underestimation._

Across the still-roaring hall, a pale brute of a man made no effort to glimpse Kovacs around the slowly departing bodies of the guards. He sat slack and relaxed in his cell, one muscular arm draped casually over the back of his chair. Reeking apathy, he slouched there, waiting. When a cold, short man stood pin-straight behind the bars across from him, he tilted his head in acknowledgement, more than familiar with the prison's most famous convict.

"Hey Rorschach!" he barked, a smile growing on his thick face. "You, yes, you Rorschach! Sooner or later Rorschach, you won't have no bars between us! They say you'll be in pain Rorschach? Well I say you'll bleed! You'll be bleeding Rorschach! You'll bleed and bleed and bleed like you never bled before! Right here!" His antagonist's bloody speech grew in length, volume, and sheer intensity. But neither anger nor annoyance grew in Kovacs, only the length of his stare.

_Rocks in chair like brainless child. Never seen man before. Doesn't know me. No reason for scream but screams despite this. Wants to scream at self. I am the scrape-goat. Failed to cure his ills so he wants to spread them._

"Hey you! Are you listening to me Rorschach? I'm talking to you! I'm talking to you runt!

_Lepers love company._


	3. I Don't Like You

Memories of my wife drifted through my mind that morning. I couldn't get her out of my head, no matter how long I attempted to remind myself of the chore ahead of me. This undertaking required focus, but how could any man be expected to concentrate with such a night behind him! Even the drab, colorless hallways I walked down did little to sober my mind. This morning was a quiet one, too quiet, quiet enough for reminiscing, but hauntingly silent enough to disturb it. Disturb it did.

My wife worried about me; there was no denying that. The thought of Kovacs' ugly reality encroaching on me, like a lithe insect on its web-captive prey, was more than enough for her to lose sleep about. She couldn't shake that notion that maybe, just maybe, I might descend into his snare and never come back. It was ridiculous. No problem is beyond the grasp of a good psychoanalyst, a good, college-educated psychoanalyst.

Satisfied by my own reassurances, I paced my way down dusty stairwells and pale passages, heading to that same empty, postage-stamp of a room where I had encountered Kovacs just a day earlier. On my way, mind relaxing into a contented stupor, my thoughts wandered to her again. I couldn't resist. Even the cold brown color of a prison sign became her soft, rich chocolate hair. Harsh fluorescent lights, necessary even in the prison's early morning, brought back the gleam a stained glass lamp at our table, adorned with an image of grape vines, sophisticated in its simplicity. Striding down the final hallway, as if my legs strode beside hers through a midnight park, I neared a door. I ducked in slightly as through a sculpted ivy arch, eyes flooded with synthetic light and then…

Kovacs. _No, not Kovacs_, my heart begged, but mind reluctantly accepted. His head hadn't turned when I entered. It faced forward like an uncompromising hunting dog, eyes relentlessly focused. He was so tempting to abhor, but I resisted and settled with resentment at the authority his presence had on me, the shocking chill it sent down my spine. I stood by the door hesitantly, by a cold metal door, not an ivy arch, and managed to compose myself and be seated. He wasn't _that_ intolerable I suppose. Once you got accustomed to the rigid expression, condemning eyes, and stiff, rock-like posture, well, he was almost bearable. Yes, that's the word- bearable.

I greeted him, attempting to stifle a yawn. "Sorry, late night. Today I'd like to do something different. Frankly, Walter, I'd like to talk." Still stone-faced. "I'd like to talk about Rorschach. Will you do that for me Walter?" I prompted. "Will you tell me about Rorschach?"

Finally, the freckled granite softened. He spoke. The voice was deep, last words delivered with a quick flick of the tongue, as if he were spitting. "You keep calling me Walter. I don't like you."

I was dumbfounded. Annoyance, maybe, but dislike I hadn't anticipated. Instinctively I twitched, mouth agape, eyes wide. My struggle for composure fell flat, fell _hard_. I couldn't imagine why this man, rough-housed by fellow prisoners, shepherded by guards, abused by all but me, would cast his disapproval _here_.

"Uh…You…you don't like me. Alright. Alright. Wur, why is that exactly?" I stumbled, my manner too jumpy, discomfort too obvious. I fiddled with my pen, twirling it slowly. Any fellow psychologist could take this as a sign of anxiety. I only hoped Kovacs wasn't so observant.

But I had a feeling he was.

His answer by contrast was sharp, knife-like, executed with sharp cuts before slowing to a monotone grind. "Fat. Wealthy. Think you understand pain. I'll tell you something doctor. I'll tell you about Rorschach."


	4. Callous

_As Rorschach tells his story, I decided to supplement his words and thoughts with journal entries from when he was young. I figured his expression wouldn't be as harsh when he was younger, so the wording is less choppy in the journal entries than what you'd normally expect from him._

* * *

><p>"1956. Aged 16. Left children's home. Became unskilled manual worker, garment industry."<p>

_Still remember that day. Balding man with sagging face showed me my workspace. His eyes were cold. Didn't care who I was, where I'd been. Only saw cheap labor._

"Job bearable but unpleasant. Had to handle female clothing."

_Hated that. Stomach churned when mother came to mind. Had to swallow thought like vomit. Workspace no more than warehouse. Always cold._

* * *

><p><strong>Journal- January 8, 1956<strong>

I've escaped. Finally.

So sick of that "home". Home? How can they call it a home? Nothing but ignorant kids running around, screaming about nothing with ignorant adults screaming _at _them. But I know where I'm going now, now that I'm on my own. I can't believe they released me to work this job. But still, I feel off. Nervous? I've never been physically alone before. In other ways I'm always alone. But not like this.

Today I was sitting in a lobby. A man called my name from a door in the back of the room. I followed him, followed him past shiny offices, shiny floors and shiny hallways with shiny pictures. I never expected it to be this nice. Polished.

I asked him if this was where I'd be working. He just laughed.

We walked past the shiny offices, coming to a faded red door at the end of the hall with black spray-painted words: STORAGE AND PROCESSING. He turned a squeaky handle. My heart sank. We were in a massively large, massively cold, massively stuffy room. From ceiling to floor it was filled with organized racks of shirts and pants and dresses and clothes of every shape and size. But my hair stood on end when I saw what was directly in front of me. An entire rack of women's undergarments. Garish colors that set me into nausea. I rocked on my heels, trying to focus on the balding man's directions. His one hand pressed on my back, pressuring me forward while the thumb on his other jabbed toward the repulsive items. He tried to instruct me. I don't remember what he said, but I remember being punished for not paying attention afterward. All I could do was fight memories of my mother, fight running away. My mouth was wide for minutes straight, but the man didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't stop to think about it. I tried to understand him, to find a word to describe him. Then I found a word to settle on. I settled on callous. And lowered my expectations.

* * *

><p>"1962. Special order for dress in new Dr. Manhattan spin-off fabric. Viscous fluids between two layers latex, heat and pressure sensitive."<p>

_Still remember it. Holding it in hands. Smiled._

"Customer young girl, Italian name. Never collected order. Said dress looked ugly."

_Was shocked by response. Disagreed._

"Wrong, not ugly at all. Black and white moving. Changing shape…but not mixing. No gray. Very, very beautiful."

_First beautiful thing I'd seen in a long time. Fingers didn't want to put it down. Didn't want to let it go._

"Nobody wanted it. Meant for me. Took it home. Learned to cut it using heated implements to reseal latex. When I had cut it enough, it didn't look like a women anymore."

_Warm steam from heated scissors wafted up to face. Felt good. Fluids flowed gently, didn't protest cutting. __Cut for me._


	5. Curiosity Killed the Kat

**Journal- August 17, 1962**

My manager. Type of man who can talk on and on whether you're listening or not. But I'm used to rambling. When he called for me today, I knew he had a new order in. Recognized voice of a man thrilled with potential profit. Profit, I don't care about. I spend most of my work evenings, when I'm free, staring outside the workshop's windows. Just watching. People are interesting when you observe them. Sometimes I latch onto one person, imagining who there are, where they're going. Wishing I were somewhere else. My manager hates that habit, but I'm not stopping. Getting good at reading people. Could watch a women drop something on the sidewalk and predict whether passerby would help. It's better than staring at things in the shop I'd rather not see.

Back to the call. He explained that a young women, Kitty Genovese, had ordered an expensive dress.

When she came by to see it she thought it was ugly. Didn't want it. It was sewn in Dr. Manhattan's new cloth material and I had to make sure the chemical fabric was properly disposed of. Easy job. I didn't think much of it.

But then he brought the dress to me. I took it and stared, holding it arms length from my body. My rolled-up sleaves never touched it. Hands were clean. It was a moderately short, white sleeveless dress with thick straps. Beneath a thin, wispy layer of outer fabric, dark shapes of liquid moved, one side in symmetry with the other. Perfect symmetry. The black performers danced a carefully synchronized routine on their white stage, synchronizing themselves both to each other and to my every move, waltzing ever so slightly with the move of my finger. Beautiful. She was very wrong. It was beautiful, a black and white ballet without a blemish of gray. It was mine. My boss will never know I took it home with me tonight.

A growing mess and trash has accumulated in my apartment. Waste pilled up in corners, dust on every surface. Doesn't require cleaning. But the dress can't be soiled. Right now its folded on the only clear surface I have, my nightstand. Just black. Just white. No grey. What now? I don't know. One thing I know, the shape is wrong. Feel the need to cut it but don't know how. Will research in the morning.

**August 18, 1962**

It's been weeks. No success. But today I've done it. After work I searched stores for books. Came across one on Dr. Manhattan's inventions and achievements. Has section on fabric. I bought the book and headed home immediately to read. Learned that whatever severs the material has to be scorching hot, to reseal the latex. This afternoon I heated up scissors in my apartment and sliced. It worked. Not a grey spot in the midst of it. The dress no longer reminds me of a women's shape. Shape has died with the incisions. I can't explain my obsession, the fascination I have with the fabric. But I feel like part of myself, my past self, has died with wounds. Just black. Just white. No grey.

I am satisfied tonight.

* * *

><p>"Soon, became bored. Fabric had no use. Left it in trunk. Forgot about it. Two years passed. March, 1964. Stopped at newsstand on way to work, bought paper. There she was. Front page."<p>

_Haven__'__t __forgotten __name. __Not __just dress had died._

"Women who'd ordered special dress. Kitty Genovese. Raped, tortured. Killed. Here. In New York. Outside her own apartment building. Almost forty neighbors heard screams, nobody did anything. Nobody called cops. Some of them even watched. Do you understand?"

_I __understood. __Understood __too __well. __Imagined __masses __looking __on. __Watching __from __windows __like __children __at __circus. __But __had __to __hide __entertainment. __Showing __it __wouldn__'__t __be __"__proper"__. N__ot __proper __at __all._

"Some of them even watched. I knew what people were then, behind all the evasions, all the self-deception."

_Fake._

"Ashamed for humanity, I went home. I took the remains of her unwanted dress…and made a face that I could bear to look at in the mirror."

_Just __black. __Just __white. __No __grey._

I let two pain pills fall gently, silently into my palms as Kovacs finished speaking.

"A face, I see," was the only reply I could muster, well, the only polite reply. Why had I let this case worry me? It was simple. He was…troubled, like I'd thought before. With the troubled, all you had to do was talk slow to them, use reason…good psychology.


	6. The New Patient

"Walter, is what happened to Kitty Genovese _really_ proof that the whole of mankind is rotten? I think you've been conditioned with a negative world view," I began, trying to avoid eye contact with the vigilant, unforgiving brown spheres across from me. Could Kovacs make things any more unnerving? Why couldn't he be fidgety, restless? I'd take any other delinquent or felon over this! At least they acted, well, human. He was in prison for goodness sakes! A man had every excuse to tap his foot a bit, scratch his neck at least. The man didn't even twitch. It wasn't normal. But then again, when did Walter Kovacs ever have a reputation for being normal?

_Negative worldview. Is that what they call it? So festering wounds get pretty white labels. Of course. Blood might stain if you actually touch it._

"There are good people too, like…"

"Like you?" The words were grating, condemning.

Like me? What kind of question was that? My eyes widened. I had never expected him to address me, never expected a response beyond the bare minimum. For a fleeting, uncomfortable moment, I recalled my first impression of his eyes bored into mine. Like _he_ was the…

No. This was not productive. I was in charge, and I would continue to be in charge.

"Me? Oh, well, I wouldn't say that." Humbleness is key with any patient. "I…"

"No." Kovacs spoke again, effortlessly. "You just think it. Think you're good people! Why are you spending so much time on me doctor?"

For the first time, my mystery man revealed something emotionally naked, something, that in his case, could even be considered personal: emotion! It was actual emotion. A spark of amplified intensity I perceived in those eyes, strain in the firm and formidable, yet intricate muscles of his neck. The humanity was almost calming.

"Uh…well, because I care about you, and because I want to make you well…"

Slowly, a handle turned with a metallic groan. The guards were back.

"Other people down in cells, behavior more extreme than mine. You don't spend any time with them...," Kovacs retorted, his brow raised faintly, defiantly. Under manufactured bulbs, darkness filled his facial crevices, highlighting the sharpness of his face and words. Light bathed the left fringe of his face, evaporating into a contiguous canyon of shadow. His glance was point-blank precise. I swallowed.

"But then, they're not famous. Won't get your name in journals." The police sentries were now at his bank, one observing, nonchalant. His associate sternly tugged on the prisoner's shoulder. I had lost track of time. Kovacs hadn't. As he rose from his chair and turned modestly to depart, leaving me staring in his stead, my patient said his last.

"You don't want to make me well. Just want to know what makes me _sick_." Delivered like upchucking vomit, that last word loitered in my mind, on my tongue, a bad taste. "You'll find out. Have patience doctor." The tone was soothing, nauseating.

"You'll find out."

With a echoing bang, the high-security door shut behind them. I sat there for a moment, toying with my pills before taking them dry. As the trio of footsteps faded, my mind considered the concept of a man so volatile, yet so undeniably precise, a man who could explain his vision of the world with a handful of words. I, on the other hand, had little to say tonight. Why I had allowed myself to become half-fearful, half-fascinated with this felon? This was a simple case with a simple diagnosis, so similar to the many I'd studied before him: troubled nurture, trouble nature…troubled life. At least, that was a simple way of seeing it. But as my eyes, every bit as dark as Kovac's but far less imposing, wandered to the orderly pile of inkblot cards to my side, I couldn't help but wonder what the criminal meant. "You'll find out," he'd said. The pieces of his case could be in ready without that one little statement. It confused everything. Even so, the man lingered, in the air, in the room, in my mind, as if part of him still sat across from me. But did it matter? Realistically, Kovacs was far gone now. Within a matter of weeks, he would become another hopeless case filed away and forgotten. For a moment I considered dropping Kovacs altogether, following my wife's advice and declaring him lost. I weighed my options as I gathered the stacks of papers scattered across the table and swept them into my briefcase. Something heavy hung in the air and I was itching to leave.

I sat up, crossed the room silently, and opened the door of the interogation room, wondering how that cold metal exit had ever played a part of daydreams. Walking down the long, curving hallway beyond it, crossing the parking lot, driving home, I waited patiently for the heavyness to dissipate. I thought if I traveled far enough, I could shake his eyes and his stares and his dagger-sharp features. I thought I could forget the way he analyzed me, the way his expressions condemned without words, forget the black and the white. But that night, I couldn't sleep.

All my thoughts were gray.


End file.
